


Don't Look At Me, I'm Only Breathing

by knightlysoulsnatcher



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, And It Goes Wrong, In Which Harry Tries To Distract Himself From Bad Things By Bickering With Draco, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 06:15:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11374278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightlysoulsnatcher/pseuds/knightlysoulsnatcher
Summary: "It would be one thing if Potter smiled less, categorized his emotions and kept them from spilling like melted ice cream. It would be one thing if Draco didn’t know better, hadn’t caught him crying on the phone in an alley, trying to keep his voice low, stifle the shudders and gasps (even though he should’ve known that Draco took his smoke breaks then, but Potter never did pay much attention to anything that mattered)."Or: Draco cares about him. Deep, deep down.





	Don't Look At Me, I'm Only Breathing

**Author's Note:**

> Story title taken from Cherry Tree by The National 
> 
> Full disclosure: I'm not really in this fandom or Super Super Familiar with these characters. This is a (late) birthday gift for my darling roommate (i love youu). Hopefully they're not entirely butchered?

It would be one thing if Potter smiled less, categorized his emotions and kept them from spilling like melted ice cream. It would be one thing if Draco didn’t know better, hadn’t caught him crying on the phone in an alley, trying to keep his voice low, stifle the shudders and gasps (even though he should’ve known that Draco took his smoke breaks then, but Potter never did pay much attention to anything that mattered).

 

He wouldn’t feel guiltier remembering how they’d bicker between shifts, wary of irritating customers yet incapable of mutual affection beyond professional requirements. The way it’d gotten worse lately, the impersonal feeling of dissatisfaction decaying into something unfamiliar, something oddly personal. They’re just employees on the shame shift most of the time; this is the only aspect of their lives they clearly label, only because they both need this job. For different reasons of course—Potter, for all of his nonexistent charm, hardly is an equal.

 

It doesn’t matter now, though. What’s happened, happened, and now Draco knows he must deal with the consequences.

 

Potter’s messy (disgusting), thick curls distract Draco when he returns, stands beside him. Luna has served the three customers arriving during their break; two new people slouch at tables he’d cleaned an hour ago, one slips out the door in awkward haste. Draco tries to focus on Luna instead of Potter, watching her hands, gaze snagging on her hair instead of Potter’s bloodshot eyes or his red nose or the way his fingers are twitching slightly, and he keeps pulling his sleeves up and down.

 

Potter sounded nothing short of devastated in the alley, and the emotion melts from his face to his hands, his work skirting the edges of sloppy. Draco wonders how he does it, manages to be infuriatingly emotional and yet practice a procrastinated sense of control.

 

“Your sniveling is scaring away customers, Potter,” Draco sneers when there’s a proper lull. Waits, watches, hopes for the usual flare of irritation, the snide remark that only follows when Draco’s hit a nerve.

 

All Potter does is scoff and mutter something about Draco’s “disgusting cologne” doing the job “just fine,” but this is a level of pathetic that doesn’t suit Draco—or Potter, for that matter—so he keeps quiet.

 

It isn’t any fun to knock Potter down a level or two when he’s already decided to plaster himself to rock bottom like a goddamn starfish. Draco decides that he’d rather stick to ignoring Potter for the rest of the shift.

 

Draco does a better job ignoring Potter, now. He can’t escape the awkward feeling of being watched; however, he focuses on his job (as he should and does, mind you), plans his exact route from the café to his house, from the bland foyer with that godawful crystal chandelier to his room in a corner on the second story. Past his father’s green-brown office, dark and moist like the rainforest exhibit at his favorite childhood zoo. His mother won’t be home until late, some dinner her sister’s been planning for months. Draco knows it’s just an elaborate excuse to gossip and eat copious amounts of decadent garbage, but he can’t fault his mother.

 

Surfaces to full awareness only once, only when a customer tried to give him their number with shaking hands, grimaces at them so terrifically that his lips felt awkward as they retracted their offer, slunk out with their coffee.

 

The awkwardness of the incident coated the whole café in a grimy chill that left goosebumps interrupting Draco’s skin, but he ignored the sensation as best he could, retreating into annoyed silence as Potter did nothing but scowl darkly as he wiped down a table recently inhabited by two old women.

 

Scowling and muttering did no one a fat lot of good, especially as Draco immediately wanted to snap a victorious _jealous?_ at him, except what good would that do when Potter’s face went from a constipated anger to his previous disquieting blankness.

 

Luna tried to talk to him of course, but Draco breezed through barely polite conversation with her easily, not paying real attention despite feeling a tad guilty about it.

 

The end of his shift brings relief so unfamiliar that Draco experiences a vague sense of whiplash. Not that he loved the job his father made him accept to “build character,” but this is the first time he felt something positive about going home and hiding in his room, hoping his father didn’t decide to spontaneously force a halfhearted father-son bonding dinner.

 

Draco supposes he ought to thank Potter, then sneers violently. Handles the apron a little too roughly as he puts it away and continues getting ready to leave.

 

This would be significantly easier to achieve, of course, if Potter hadn’t decided to follow him instead of waiting a few minutes, completing their shifts simultaneously yet separately. As Potter is Potter, though, and wants nothing more than to ruin every scrap of calm composure Draco has, he chooses to deviate from their habitual distance today of all days.

 

Draco barely has time to privately find Potter pitiful before the man in question grabs Draco’s arm and drags him into the alley.

 

(Draco thinks he can hear Potter’s earlier crying against the bricks in the quiet stirrings of dead leaves and ratty trash bags.)

 

He’s on the cusp of hurling insults as he pulls away from Potter, but the words catch in his teeth, make his gums bleed, as he watches Potter’s features flicker from bizarre vulnerability and unflattering anger.

 

Neither one of them are accustomed to Draco holding back. Naturally, his merciful composure only lasts so long.

 

He smooths his sleeves, taking his time. “I’d ask what’s bothering you, but I’ve learned not to waste my time with rabid mutts.”

 

“There it is,” Potter replies, teeth flashing under the alleyway lights, anything but kind. “Thought you’d grown soft on me earlier.”

 

It’s not quite the open hostility Draco expected, though the grin looks like he’s trying too hard to look frightening, and his eyes glint. He sniffs, finally bothering to look at Potter properly. “You weren’t worth my time today. Hardly entertaining to poke a sniveling worm.”

 

“I don’t live and breathe for you, you know.”

 

Draco raises his eyebrows. “Really? You sure about that?” Forces himself to lean against the grimy brick wall in a casual, contemptuous display of nonchalance. “Because I’m not the one that dragged you out here and made a fuss because you didn’t insult my perfect hair or dreamy eyes today.”

 

Potter scoffs. “You realize that implies that I have perfect hair and dreamy eyes to you, right?”

 

Draco rolls his eyes. “Your hair is the farthest thing from perfect.”

 

(He’s going to have to burn his shirt when he gets home. He can feel the brick sticking to his skin, but he can’t bring himself to move, not with Potter here, glaring at him beautifully.)

 

Potter stumbles over air, mouthing incoherent jumbles. After a minute, the mockery of speech ends with him furiously shaking his head. “I saw you ducking out of the alleyway earlier. When I was on the phone.”

 

“So?”

 

“So, I don’t need your pity. Whatever weird shit you did today needs to stop.”

 

“Aw, Potter, you’re gonna make me blush. I didn’t realize you were that desperate for my attention.”

 

As expected, Potter’s nose twitches. He steps forward, crowding Draco against the wall. “Don’t treat me like I can’t handle your fuckboy stupidity.”

 

Draco merely smirks up at Potter, pushing his panic deep down. He can’t decide if he likes them like this, Potter glaring furiously at him as he presses Draco against the wall, warm arms bracketing his head. “Loverboy, I don’t think you can handle much of anything. Much less me.”

 

Potter’s still glaring at him, but his eyes keep snagging on Draco’s smirk. It leaves Draco feeling like old lukewarm tea; he doesn’t know whether to be flattered or annoyed, panicked. Settles for something in the middle, something ambiguous enough that all he feels compelled to do is _move_ in no specific direction.

 

He would prefer to duck under Potter’s arms and slither away, but there’s no pride in that, in running away, even if it results in abandoning Potter. Leaving him bereft, unsettled, the way Draco feels constantly.

 

Draco doesn’t realize how much he wants to wreck Potter, just once, like Potter ruins him constantly. His smirk widens, cheeks aching, as he leans in closer, allows their noses to brush. It startles Potter, if his wide eyes are anything to go by, if his heavier breathing means anything.

 

He holds the position carefully, waiting for the perfect time to pull away. (Because pulling away now is not blind surrender, not only from his inability to function properly this close.) When Potter finds himself staring at Draco’s eyes, lips, finds himself leaning towards him, Draco forces himself to duck and slide (gracefully, of course), out of his grasp. Wants to look back, catch Potter leaning against the wall, bereft and bewildered; however, he knows he can’t look back, can’t give either of them that satisfaction.

 

He’s a few feet away, grazing the edges of a proper sidewalk, when he hears footsteps quickly thud behind him. Instinctively, Draco picks up his pace, tries to sprint away.

 

There’s a warm hand around his wrist, tugging with bizarrely gentle insistence. This time, Draco lets Potter manhandle him, finding that he’d rather figure out what’s bothering Potter so much, what’s causing him to care so much about nothing and stare at Potter’s lips the way Draco knows he’s stared at Potter’s arms.

 

“What do you want now?” The tired, cliché question sits funny on his lips, but Draco doesn’t know what else to ask, would rather take control of how Potter reacts to the situation.

 

“You were flirting with me.”

 

“Last I checked, you’re the one that pushed me against the wall. In an alley, one that _you_ pulled me into.”

 

Potter shakes his head. “No, you were flirting with me. You do that when you’re deflecting or hiding something.”

 

“Maybe I’m hiding how disgusted I am by your stupidity.”

“That’s not something you’d hide from me. Or anyone else, really.”

 

Draco shrugs. “We have to get along at least a little bit.”

 

Potter shakes his head again and sighs. “Again, bullshit. I hate that you pity me, but you do, and that with the flirting means you actually care. Deep down, you care.”

 

“I do not!” Draco’s voice sounds uncomfortably strained. His heart beats too quickly, and it’s a miracle his voice didn’t waver.

 

He doesn’t realize that he’s been hoping Potter sees through him until Potter doesn’t. Potter seems to take his resistance and annoyance at face value, and his hand loosens around Draco’s wrist.

 

It isn’t that Potter seems absolutely convinced that Draco’s telling the truth; rather, Potter seems completely willing to understand that Draco’s resistance means _back the fuck off,_ not _try harder._ Draco ought to be comforted that the subject of his hopelessly idiotic infatuation isn’t a complete asshole.

 

Now, his hand fully slips away, head dipping as he begins retreating, giving Draco space.

 

Instead, Draco chooses to copy Potter. Grabs his wrist, tugs him around, mutters a useless _sorry_ against his lips before pressing them together. It’s hopelessly uncomfortable. Draco’s too anxious to properly enjoy the fact that he’s kind of kissing Potter. His lips press against Potter’s aggressively, channeling his frustration at Potter’s absolute stupidity through the kiss.

 

He can’t even tell if Potter really does anything in response because he wants to or because Potter’s forced him into a kiss. Which, he would feel worse about later, but it wasn’t like Potter was really listening to him.

 

When he pulls away, Draco sighs, tries to apologize again even though the words stick to his tongue like gum.

 

Clears his throat, tries speaking again. “I wasn’t pitying you.” Forces himself to wait and watch for a response.

 

“Oh.”

 

It takes everything Draco has not to roll his eyes.

 

Potter seems to notice this. “I wasn’t expecting that. I didn’t think you cared.”

 

“There’s a reason I find your intelligence lackluster.”

 

Unexpectedly, Potter chuckles. “Yeah, well, it says something about yours that you clearly didn’t realize I feel the same way.”

 

Draco blinks, feels himself smile. “Yeah?”

 

Potter grins. “Yeah.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“We should probably talk about this.”

 

“Probably.”

 

“Later?” Draco steps closer, hopes Potter can sense that he’d really rather be kissing Potter properly.

 

“Later.”

 

For once, Potter seems to understand Draco fully. This time, he lets Draco crowd him against the grimy brick, kiss him senseless.

 

Later, they will talk. Now, Draco has Potter where he’s always wanted him, warm and soft, just for him. Cornered and needy and perfect. Sighs softly against his neck when he pulls away, eyes closed. Frozen in a moment where Potter’s earlier crying and their convoluted feelings aren’t relevant, Draco wants to enjoy it all he can.

 

When they finally pull away, Harry holds out a hand for Draco.

 

Draco accepts the gesture with an easy smile.


End file.
